Sivut kuvina

And praise his gentle soule, and wish it well, But else, look how their virtue was their owne, And of his friendly facts full often tell.

Not capable of propagation. His father dead! tush, no it was not he,

Right so their titles beene, nor can be thine, He finds records of his great pedigree,

Whose ill deserts might blanke their golden line. And tells how first his famous ancestour

Tell me, thou gentle Trojan, dost thou prize Did come in long since with the Conquerour. Thy brute beasts' worth by their dams' qualities? Nor bath some bribed herald first assign'd Say'st thou this colt shall prove a swift-pac'd steed His quartered arms and crest of gentle kind; Only because a jennet did him breed The Scottish barnacle, if I might choose,

Or say'st thou this same borse shall win the prize, That of a worme doth waxe a winged goose ;

Because bis dam was swiftest Trunchefice, Nathlesse some hungry squire for, hope of good

Or Runcevall his sire? himself a Gallaway? Matches the churl's sonne into gentle blood,

Whiles like a tireling jade he lags half-way. Whose sonne more justly of his gentry boasts Or whiles thou seest some of thy stallion race, Than who were borne at two py'd painted posts, Their eyes bor'd out, masking the miller's maze, And had some traunting merchant to his sire, Like to a Scythian slave sworne to the payle, That trafick'd both by water and by fire.

Or dragging frothy barrels at his tayle?
O times ! since ever Rome did kings create, Albe wise nature in her providence,
Brasse gentlemen, and Cæsars laureate.

Wont in the want of reason and of sense,
Traduce the native virtue with the kind,
Making all brute and senselesse things inclin'd

Unto their cause, or place where they were sowne;

That one is like to all, and all like one.

Was never fox but wily cubs begets;
Fuimus troes. Vel vix ea nostra.

The bear his fiercenesse to his brood besets:

Nor fearful hare falls out of lyon's seed, What boots it, Pontice, though thou could'st discourse Nor eagle wont the tender dove to breed, Of a long golden line of ancestours ?

Creet ever wont the cypress sad to bear, Or show their painted faces gayly drest,

Acheron banks the palish popelar: From ever since before the last conquest ?

The palm doth rifely rise in Jury field,
Or tedious bead-rolls of descended blood,

And Alpheus waters nought but olives wild.
From father Japhet since Ducalion's flood ? Asopas breeds big bullrusbes alone,
Or call some old church-windows to record Meander, heath; peaches by Nilus growne.
The age of thy faire armes ;-

An English wolfe, an Irish toad to see,
Or find some figures halfe obliterate

Were as a chaste man nursd in Italy.
In rain-beat marble near to the church-gate And now when nature gives another guide
Upon a crosse-legg'd tombe: what boots it thee To human-kind, that in his bosome bides,
To show the rusted buckle that did tie

Above instinct, his reason and discourse,
The garter of thy greatest grandsires knee? His being better, is his life the worse?
What to reserve their relicks many yeares, Ah me! how seldome see we sonnes succeed
Their silver-spurs, or spils of broken speares ? Their father's praise, in prowesse and great deed ?
Or cite old Ocland's verse, how they did weild Yet certes if the sire be ill inclin'd,
The wars in Turwin, or in Turney field?

His faults befal his sonnes by course of kind.
And if thou canst in picking strawes engage Scaurus was covetous, his sonne not so;
In one half day thy father's heritage;

But not his pared nayle will he forego.
Or hide whatever treasures be thee got,

Florian, the sire, did women love alive, In some deep cock-pit, or in desp'rate lot

And so his sonne doth too, all but his wife. Upon a six-square piece of ivory,

Brag of thy father's faults, they are thine own: Throw both thy self and thy posterity?

Brag of his lands if they are not foregone. Or if (O shame!) in hired harlot's bed

Brag of thine own good deeds, for they are thine Thy wealthy heirdome thou have buried :

More than his life, or lands, or golden line.
Then, Pontice, little boots thee to discourse
Of a long golden line of ancestours.
Ventrous Fortunio his farm hath sold,
And gads to Guiane land to fish for gold,

Meeting perhaps, if Orenoque deny,
Some straggling pinnace of Polonian rye :

Plus beaque fort.
Then comes home floating with a silken sail,
That Severne shaketh with his cannon-peal:

Can I not touch some upstart carpet-shield
Wiser Raymuodus, in his closet pent,

Or Lolio's sonne, that never saw the field; Laughs at such danger and adventurement,

Or taxe wild Pontice for his luxuries, When half bis lands are spent in golden smoke,

But straight they tell me of Tiresias' eyes? And now his second hopeful glasse is broke.

Or lucklesse Collingborn's feeding of the crowes, But yet if hap'ly his third fornace hold,

Or hundreth scalps which Thames still overflowes, Devoteth all his pots and pans to gold:

But straight Sigalion nods and knits his browes, So spend thou, Pontice, if thou canst not spare,

And winkes and waftes his warning hand for feare, Like some stout seaman, or phylosopher.

And lisp some silent letters in my eare?
And were thy fathers gentle? that 's their praise ; Have I not vow'd for shunning such debate ?
No thank to thee by whom their name decays; Pardon, ye satires, to degenerate!
By virtue got they it, and valourous deed; And wading low in the plebeian lake,
Do thou so, Pontice, and be honoured.

That no salt wave shall froth upon my backe.

Let Labeo, or who else list for me,

Wars, God forefend! nay God defend from war; Go loose his ears and fall to alchimy:

Soone are sonnes spent, that not soon reared are. Only let Gallio give me leave a while

Gallio may pull me roses ere they fall, To schoole him once or ere I change my style. Or in his net entrap the tennis-ball, O lawlesse paunch! the cause of much despight, Or tend his spar-hawke mantling in her mev, Through raunging of a currish appetite,

Or yelping beagles busy heeles pursue, When spleenish morsels cram the gaping maw, Or watch a sinking corke upon the shore, Withouten diet's care or trencher-law;

Or halter finches through a privy doore, Though never have I Salerne rhymes profest Or list he spend the time in sportful game, To be some lady's trencher-critick guest;

In daily courting of his lovely dame, Whiles each bit cooleth for the oracle,

Hang on her lips, melt in her wanton eye,
Whose sentence charms it with a rhyming spell. Dance in her hand, joy in her jollity;
Touch not this coler, that melancholy,

Here's little perill, and inuch lesser paine,
This bit were dry and hot, that cold and dry. So timely Hymen do the rest restraine.
Yet can I set my Gallio's dieting,

Hye, wanton Gallio, and wed betime,
A pestle of a lark, or plover's wing;

Why should'st thou leese the pleasures of thy prime? And warn him not to cast his wanton eyne

Seest thou the rose-leaves fall ungathered? On grosser bacon, or salt haberdine,

Then hye thee, wanton Gallio, to wed. Or dried ditches of some smoked beeve,

Let ring and ferule meet upon thine hand, Hang'd on a writhen wythe since Martin's eve, And Lucine's girdle with her swathing-band. Or burnt larke's heeles, or rashers raw and greene, Hye thee, and give the world yet one dwarfe more, Or melancholick liver of an hen,

Such as it got when thou thy selfe wast bore: Which stout Vorano brags to make his feast, Looke not for warning of thy bloomed chin, And claps his hand on his brave ostridge breast; Can ever happinesse too soone begin? Then falls to praise the hardy janizar

Virginius vow'd to keep his maidenhead, That sucks his horse side, thirsting in the war. And eats chast lettice, and drinks poppy-seed, Lastly, to seal up all that he hath spoke,

And smells on camphire fasting; and that done, Quaffes a whole tunnell of tobacco smoke.

Long hath he liv'd, chaste as a vailed nunne; If Martius in boist'rous buffs be dress’d,

Free as a new-absolved damosell Branded with iron plates upon the breast,

That frier Cornelius shrived in bis cell, And pointed on the shoulders for the noncé, Till now he wax'd a toothlesse bachelour, As new come from the Belgian garrisons,

He thaws like Chaucer's frosty Januere, What should thou need to envy ought at that, And sets a month's mind upon smiling May, Whenas thou smellest like a civet cat?

And dyes his beard that did his age bewray; Whena's thine oyled locks smooth platted fall, Biting on annys-seede and rosemarine, Shining like varnish'd pictures on a wall.

Which might the fume of his rot lungs refine : When a plum'd fanne may shade thy chalked face, Now he in Charon's barge a bride doth seeke, And lawny strips thy naked bosom grace.

The maidens mocke, and call him withered leeke, If brabbling Make-fray, at each fair and size, That with a greene tayle hath an hoary head, Picks quarrels for to show his valiantize,

And now he would, and now he cannot wed.
Straight pressed for an hungry Swizzer's pay
To thrust his fist to each part of the fray,
And piping hot puffs toward the pointed plajne
With a broad Scot, or proking spit of Spaine;

Or hoyseth sayle up to a forraine shore,
That he may live a lawlesse conquerour.

Stupet albius ære.
If some such desp'rate hackster shall devise Would now that Matho were the satyrist,
To rouze thine hare's-heart from her cowardice, That some fat bride might grease him in the fist,
As idle children striving to excell

For which he need not brawl at any bar, In blowing bubbles from an empty shell;

Nor kisse the booke to be a perjurer; Oh, Hercules ! how like to prove a man,

Who else would scorne his silence to have sold, That all so rath thy warlike life began?

And have his tongue tyed with strings of gold? Thy mother could thee for thy cradle set

Curius is dead, and buried 'ong since, Her husband's rusty iron corselet;

And all that loved golden abstinence. Whose jargling sound might rock her babe to rest, Might he not well repine at his old fee, That never plaind of his uneasy nest :

Would he but spare to speake of usury? There did he dreame of dreary wars at hand, Hirelings enow beside can be so base, And woke, and fought, and won, ere he could stand. Though we should scorne each bribing varlet's brasse: But who hath seene the lambs of Tarentine, Yet he and I could shun each jealous head, May guesse what Gallio his manners beene; Sticking our thumbs close to our girdle-stead. All soft as is the falling thistle-downe,

Though were they manicled behind our backe, Soft as the fuiny ball, or Morrian's crowne. Another's fist can serve our fees to take. Now Gallio, gins thy youthly heat to raigne Yet pursy Euclio cheerly smiling pray'd In every vigorous limb and swelling vaine ; [high, That my sharp words might curtail their side trade: Time bids thee raise thine headstrong thoughts on For thousands beene in every governall To valour and adventrous chivalry:

That live by losse, and rise by others fall. Pawne thou no glose for challenge of the deed, Whatever sickly sheepe so secret dies, Nor make thy quintaine others armed head But some foule raven hath bespoke his eyes? T enrich the waiting herald with thy shaine, What else makes N--- when his lands are spent, And make thy losse the scornful scaffold's game. Go shaking like a threadbare malecontent,

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Whose bandlesse bonnet vailes his o'ergrown chin, When it shall grind thy grating gall for shame, And sullen rags bewray his morphew'd skin : To see the lands that beare thy grandsire's name So ships be to the wolfish western isle

Become a dunghill peasant's summer-hall, Among the savage kernes in sad exile;

Or lonely hermit's cage inhospitall; Or in the Tarkish wars at Cæsar's pay

A pining gourmand, an imperious slave, To rub bis life out till the latest day.

An horse-leech, barren wombe, and gaping grave; Another shifting gallant to forecast

A legal thiefe, a bloodlesse murtherer,
To gull his hostess for a month's repast,

A fiend incarnate, a false usurer:
With some gall'd trunk, ballast with straw and stone, Albe such mayne extort scorns to be pent
Left for the pawn of his provision.

In the clay walls of thatched tenement.
Had P-'s shop layn fallow bot from hence, For certes no man of a low degree
His doores close seal'd as in some pestilence, May bid two guests, or gout, or usury:
Whiles his light heeles their fearful Aight can take, Unlesse some base hedge-creeping Collybist
To get some badgelesse blue upon his back. Scatters his refuse scraps on whom he list
Tocullio was a wealthy usurer,

For Easter gloves, or for a shrove-tide hen,
Such store of incomes had he every year,

Which bought to give, he takes to sell again. By bushels was he wont to mete his coine,

I do not meane some glozing merchant's feate, As did the olde wife of Trimalcion.

That laugheth at the cozened world's deceit, Could he do more that finds an idle roome When as an hundred stocks lie in his fist, For many hundreth thousands on a tombe ? He leaks and sinks, and breaketh when he list. Or who rears up four free-schooles in his age But Nummius eas'd the needy gallant's care Of his old pillage, and damn'd surplusage ? With a base bargain of his blowen ware Yet now he swore by that sweete crosse he kissd Of fusted hops, now lost for lack of sale, (That silver crosse, where he had sacrific'd Or mould brown paper that could nought availe; His coveting soule, by his desire's owne doome, Or what he cannot utter otherwise, Daily to die the Devil's martyrdome)

May pleasure Fridoline for treble price; His angels were all fowne up to their sky, Whiles his false broker lieth in the wind, And had forsooke his naked treasury.

And for a present chapman is assign'd, Parewell Astrea, and her weights of gold,

T'he cut-throat wretch for their compacted gaine Untill his lingring calends once be told;

Buys all but for one quarter of the mayne; Nought left behind but wax and parchment scroles, Whiles if he chance to breake his deare-bought day Like Lucian's dreame that silver turn'd to coals. And forfeit, for default of due repay, Should'st thou him credit that nould credit thee? His late entangled lands; then, Fridoline, Yes, and may'st sweare he swore the verity. Buy thee a wallet, and go beg or pine. The ding-thrift heir his shift-got summe mispent,

If Mammon's selfe sbould ever live with men, Comes drooping like a penlesse penitent,

Mammon himself shall be a citizen.
And beats his faint fist on Tocullio's doore,
It lost the last, and now must call for more.
Now bath the spider caught a wand'ring fig,
And draws her captive at her cruel thigh :

Soon is his errand read in his pale face,
Which bears dumb characters of every case.

Quid placet ergo?
So Cyaed's dusky cheeke, and fiery eye,
And hairlesse brow, tells where he last did lye. I wor not how the world's degenerate,
So Matho doth bewray his guilty thought,

That men or know, or like not their estate: While his pale face doth say bis cause is nought. Out from the Gades up to th' eastern morne, Seest thou the wary angler trayle along

Not one but holds his native state forlorne. His feeble line, soone as some pike too strong When comely striplings wish it were their chance, Hath swallowed the baite that scornes the shore,

For Cænis' distaffe to enchange their lance, Yet now near-hand cannot resist no more?

And weare curl'd perriwigs, and chalk their face, So lieth h9 aloofe in smooth pretence,

And still are poring on their pocket-glasse. To hide his rough intended violence;

Tyr'd with pinn'd ruffs and fans, and partlet strips, As he that under name of Christmas cheere And busks and verdingales about their hips; Can starve his tenants all th' ensuing yeare.

And tread on corked stilts a prisoner's pace, Paper and wax, (God' wot!) a weake repay

And make their napkin for their spitting place, For such deepe debts and downcast sums as they: And gripe their waist within a narrow span : Write, seale, deliver, take, go spend and speede, Fond Cæniş, that would'st wish to be a man! And yet full hardly could his present need

Whose manish housewives like their refuse state, Part with such sum; for but as yester-late

And make a drudge of their uxorious mate, Did Furnus offer pen-worths at easy rate,

Who like a cot-queene freezeth at the rock, For small disbursment; he the bankes hath broke, Whiles his breech't dame doth man the forren stock. And needs mote now some further playne o'erlook; Is 'l not a shame to see each homely groome Yet ere he go faine would he be releast,

Sit perched in an idle chariot roome, Hye ye, ye ravens, hye you to the feast.

That were not meete some pannel to bestride, Provided that thy lands are left entire,

Sursingled to a galled hackney's hide? To be redeem'd or ere thy day expire:

Each muck-worme will be rich with lawlesse gaine, Then shalt thou teare those idle paper bonds Although hesmother up mowes of seven years graine, That thus had fettered thy pawned lands.

And hang'd himself when corne grows cheap again; Ah, foole! for sooner shalt thou sell the rest Although he buy whole harvests in the spring, Than stake ought for thy former interest ;

And foyst in false strikes to the measuring:

Although his shop be muffled from the light Certes not all the world such matter wist
Like a day dungeon, or Cimmerian night: As are the seven hills, for a satyrist.
Nor full nor fasting can the carle take rest, Perdie I loath an hundred Mathoes tongues,
While his George-Nobles rusten in his chest, An hundred gamesters shifts, or landlords wrongs,
He sleeps but once, and dreames of burglary, Or Labeo's poems, or base Lolio's pride,
And wakes and casts about his frighted eye, Or ever what I thought or wrote beside.
And gropes for th' eves in ev'ry darker shade; When once I thinke if carping Aquine's spright
And if a mouse but stirre he calls for ayde. To see now Rome, were licenc'd to the light,
The sturdy plough-man doth the soldier see How his enraged ghost would stamp and stare,
All scarfed with py'd colours to the knee,

That Cæsar's throne is turn'd to Peter's chayre.
Whom Indian pillage hath made fortunate, To see an old shorne lozell perched high,
And now he gins to loathe his former state: Crossing beneath a golden canopy ;
Now doth he inly scome his Kendall-Greene, The whiles a thousand hairlesse crownes croucb
And his patch'd cockers now despised beene.

low Nor list he now go whistling to the carre,

To kisse the precious case of his proud toe;
But sells his teeme and setleth to the warre. And for the lordly fasces borne of old,
O warre! to them that never try'd thee, sweete! To see two quiet crossed keyes of gold,
When his dead mate falls groveling at his feete, Or Cybele's shrine, the famous Pantheon's frarde,
And angry bullets whistlen at his eare,

Turn’d to the honour of our Lady's name,
And his dim eyes see nought but death and drere. But that be most would gaze and wonder at,
Oh, happy ploughman! were thy weale well knowne: Is th’horned mitre, and the bloody bat,
Oh, happy all estates except bis owne!

The crooked staffe, their coule's strange form and Some drunken rhymer thinks his time well spent,

store, If he can live to see his name in print;

Save that he saw the same in Hell before; Who when he is once feshed to the presse, To see the broken nuns, with new-shorne heads, And sees his handsell have such faire successe, In a blind cloyster tosse their idle beades, Sung to the wheele, and sung unto the payle, Or louzy coules come smoking from the stewes, He sends forth thraves of ballads to the sale. To raise the lewd rent to their lord accrewes, Nor then can rest, but volumes up bodg'd chymes, (Who with ranke Venice doth his pompe advance To have his name talk'd of in future times. By trading of ten thousand courtezans) The brain-sick youth, that feeds his tickled eare Yet backward must absolve a female's sinne, With sweet-sauc'd lies of some false traveller, Like to a false dissembling Theatine, Which hath the Spanish decadés read awhile, Who when his skin is red with shirts of male Or whet-stone leasings of old Mandeville ; And rugged baire-cloth scoures his greasy nayle; Now with discourses breakes his mid-night sleepe, Or wedding garment tames his stubborne backe, Of his adventures through the Indian deepe, Which his hempe girdle dies all blew and blacke. Of all their massy beapes of golden mine, Or of his almes-boule three dayes sapp'd and din'd, Or of the antique toombes of Palestine;

Trudges to open stewes of either kinde: Or of Damascus magick wall of glasse,

Or takes some cardinal's stable in tbe way, Of Solomon his sweating piles of brasse,

And with some pampered mule doth weare the day, Of the bird Ruc that bears an elephant,

Kept for his lord's own saddle when him liste Of mermaids that the southerne seas do haunt; Come, Valentine, and play the satyrist, Of headlesse men of savage cannibals,

To see poor sucklings welcom’d to the light The fashions of their lives and governals:

With searing irons of some soure Jacobite, What monstrous eities there erected be,

Or golden offers of an aged foole, Cayro, or the city of the Trinity.

To make his coffin some Franciscan's coule; Now are they dung-hill cocks that have not seene To see the pope's blacke knigbt, a cloaked frere, The bordering Alpes, or else the neighbour Rhine: Sweating in the channel like a scavengere. And now he plies the newes-full grashopper, Whom erst thy bowed hamme did lowly greete, Of voyages and ventures to inquire.

When at the corner-crosse thou didst him meete, 'His land mortgag'd, he, sea-beat in the way, Tumbling his rosaries hanging at his belt, Wishes for home a thousand sighs a day.

Or his baretta, or his towred felt:
And now he deems his bome-bred fare as leefe To see a lazy dumb acholithite
As his parcht bisket, or bis barrel'd beefe.

Armed against a devout flye's despigbt, Mongst all these stirs of discontented strife, Which at th' high altar doth the chalice vaile Ob, let me lead an academick life;

With a broad flie-flappe of a peacocke's tayle,
'To know much, and to think we nothing know; The whiles the liquorous priest spits every trice
Nothing to have, yet think we have ecowe; With longing for his morning sacrifice,
In skill to want, and wanting seek for more ; Which he reares up quite perpendiculare,
In weale nor want, nor wish for greater store. That the mid church doth spighte the chancel's fare,
Envy, ye monarchs, with your proud excesse, Beating their empty mawes that would be fed
At our low sayle, and our high happinesse. With the scant morsels of the sacrists' bread:

Would he not laugh to death when he should beare
The shamelesse legends of St. Christopher,

St. George, the Sleepers, or St. Peter's well,

Or of his daughter good St. Petronell?

But had he heard the female father's groane,

Yeaning in mids of her procession; Who says these Romish pageants been too high Or now should see the needlesse tryal-chayre, To be the scorne of sportful poesy ?

(When each is proved by his bastard heyre)

Or saw the churches, and new calendere

For when the fall state in his fist doth lie,
Pester'd with mongrel saints and relicks deare, He may take vantage of the vacancy)
Should he cry out on Codro's tedious toombes His fine affords so many treble pounds
When bis new rage would ask no narrower roomes? As he agreeth yeares to lease his grounds:

His rent in fair respondence must arise
To double trebles of his one yeare's price.
Of one baye's breadth, God wot! a silly coate,
Whose thatched spars are furr'd with sluttish


A whole inch thick, shining like black-moor's brows,

Through smoke that down the headlesse barrel blows.
At his bed's feet feeden his stalled teeme;
His swine beneath, his pullen o'er the beame.

A starved tenement, such as I guesse

Stands straggling in the wastes of Holdernesse;

Or such as shiver on a peake hill side,
Sit pæna merenti.

When March's lungs beate on their turf-clad hide ;

Such as nice Lipsius would grudge to see Pardon, ye glowing eares; needs will it out, Above his lodging in wild Westphalye; Though brazen walls compass’d my tongue about Or as the Saxon king bis court might make, As thick as wealthy Scrobio's quick-set rowes When his sides playned of the neat-heard's cake. In the wide common that he did enclose.

Yet must he haunt his greedy landlord's hall Pull out mine eyes, if I shall see no vice,

With often presents at each festivall: Or let me see it with detesting eyes.

With cramnied capons every new-yeare's morne, Renowned Aquine, now I follow thee,

Or with green cheeses when his sheep are shorne: Far as I may for feare of jeopardy;

Or many maunds full of his mellow fruite, And to thy hand yield up the ivy-mace

To make some way to win his weighty suite. From crabbed Persius, and more smooth Horace; Whom cannot gifts at last cause to relent, Or from tbat shrew the Roman poetesse,

Or to win favour, or fee punishment? That taught her gossips learned bitternesse; When griple patrons turn their sturdie steele Or Lucile's Muse whom thou didst imitate, To waxe, when they the golden flame do feele: Or Menips old, or Pasquillers of late.

When grand Mæcenas casts a glavering eye Yet name I not Mutius, or Tigillipe,

On the cold present of a puesy: Though they deserve a keener style than mine; And lest he might more frankly take than give, Nor meane to ransack up the quiet grave;

Gropes for a French crowne in his empty sleeve. Nor barn dead bones, as he example gave : Thence Clodius hopes to set his shoulders free I taxe the living: let the dead ashes rest,

From the light burden of his napery.
Whose faults are dead, and nailed in their chest. The smiling landlord showes a sub-shine fase, i
Who can refrain that 's guiltlesse of their crime, Peigning that he will grant him further grace,
Whiles yet he lives in such a cruel time?

And leers like Æsop's foxe upon a crane
When Titio's grounds, that in his grandsire's dayės Whose neck he craves for his chirurgian:
But one pound fine, one penny rent did raise, So lingers off the lease until the last,
A summer snow-ball, or a winter rose,

What recks he then of paines or promise past?
Is growne to thousands as the world now goes. Was ever feather, or fond woman's mind
So thrift and time sets other things on Aoate, More light than words ? the blasts of idle wind !
That now his sonne soups in a silken coate, What's fib or fire, to take the gentle slip,
Whose grandsire happily, a poore hungry swaine, And in th' exchequer rot for surety-ship?
Begg'd some cast abbey in the church's wayne: Or thence thy starved brother live and die,
And but for that, whatever he may vaunt,

Within the cold Coal-harbour sanctuary? Who knows a monk had been a mendicant? Will one from Scots-bank bid but one groate While freezing Matho, that for one lean fee

more, Won't term each term the term of Hilary, My old tenant may be turned out of doore, May now instead of those his simple fees,

Though much he spent in th' rotten roof's repaire, Get the fee-simples of faire manneries.

In hope to have it left unto his heir:
What, did he counterfeat his prince's hand, Though many a load of marle and manure layd,
For some streave lordship of concealed land? Reviv'd bis barren leas, that erst lay dead.
Or on each Michael and Lady-day,

Were he as Furius, he would defy
Tooke he deepe fórfeits for an hour's delay? Such pilfering slips of petty landlordry:
And gain'd no lesse by such injurious brawl, And might dislodge whole colonies of poore,
Then Gamius by his sixth wife's burial?

And lay their roofe quite level with their floore, Or hath he wonne some wider interest,

Whiles yet he gives as to a yielding fence, By boary charters from his grandsire's chest, Their bag and baggage to his citizens, Which late some bribed scribe for slender wage, And ships them to the new-nam'd virgin-lond, Writ in the characters of another age,

Or wilder Wales where never wight yet wonn'd. That Plowdon selfe might stammer to rehearse, Would it not vex thee where thy sires did keep, Whose date d'erlooks three centuries of years. To see the dunged folds of dag-tayld sheep? Who ever yet tbe tracks of weale so try'd,

And ruin'd house where holy tbings were said, But there hath been one beaten way beside? Whose free-stone walls the thatched roofe upbraid, He, when he lets a lease for life, or yeares, Whose shrill saint's-bell hangs on his lovery, (As never be doth until the date expires ;

While the rest are damned to the plumbery?

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